Rough Cut Read online

  “Sure,” said Harry, even though he had promised his sound guy that he would never allow Tiny near the set again, after some ill-timed barking caused a rash of ruined takes on Surfer Psycho.

  Harry slid a Budget Gourmet Fettuccini with Chicken and Broccoli into the microwave. He turned on the small kitchen television as he waited for dinner to heat up. After clicking through a variety of channels, he landed on the start of Flick Picks, a popular movie review program hosted by Walter Wig-gins, a short, tubby critic from the Los Angeles Star.

  Wiggins always wore outrageously tacky clothing. He spoke with a harsh lisp and sat in the front row of a mock-up movie theater as clips played on the silver screen.

  After the bouncy theme song, Wiggins addressed the camera.

  “Greetings from the front row. I’m Walter Wiggins and this is Flick Picks, your movie guide. To start off this week’s show, we’re going to look at a growing trend: ultra-cheap movies that never reach the movie theater. Instead, they go direct to video, where they’re mass-marketed among legitimate titles to an unsuspecting public.”

  Harry froze. He moved closer to the television, eyes fixed on the screen.

  The microwave dinged. Harry ignored it.

  Wiggins showed a clip from Harry Tuttle’s Swamp Monster. Totally out of context, without the proper establishment of mood and build-up of tension. The monster pursued his victim through a darkened beach house, upsetting wicker furniture in his path with a dramatic “Urrrgh.”

  Wiggins said, “One such movie is the incredibly bad Swamp Monster. Shot on a home-movie budget with bad acting, bad directing, bad editing and —well, bad everything —this DVD is just one of many phony flicks polluting the film industry.”

  Another clip from Swamp Monster played: the creature peeking in a cabin window to watch a well-endowed young woman in bra and panties prepare for bed.

  Wiggins continued in voice over, “Look closely and you’ll actually see a zipper running up the back of the Swamp Monster’s costume. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad for all those folks who are wasting good money on these losers.”

  Harry couldn’t take it anymore and snapped off the television. He stared into the dead screen. He could see his reflection. He didn’t budge. The shattering critique from Wiggins echoed in his head.

  First Rachel’s rejection. Now Wiggins’ public humiliation, syndicated from coast to coast.

  It was too much to bear.

  Harry shut his eyes. He spoke out loud, uttering the dismal truth, releasing a heartfelt confession, summing up his entire life and career in two simple words that hung in the air like rotten fruit on a dead tree.

  “I suck.”

  10

  Harry didn’t always suck.

  The evidence lived in scrapbooks neatly stacked on a shelf of his bedroom closet. Harry dragged them into the light and sat on the floor, turning the thick pages. The yellowed clippings greeted him like an old friend.

  Good reviews. Pleasant critics. Enthusiastic labels like “suspense master,” “skillfully scary,” and “Hitchcockian.”

  He read through two scrapbooks and tried to feel better, but it actually made him feel worse. All that potential...down the toilet. Instead of a career that steadily got better, he had gone into a long and painful decline.

  The joy of making movies had faded like old film stock. It had been left behind with his youth.

  Deeper in the back of his closet, behind the scrapbooks, a shoebox held several reels of Super 8 shorts created during childhood: Super Pickle, The Mummy Strikes Back, Return of the Mummy Strikes Back, and several unauthorized sequels to Star Wars on a dime store budget.

  He recalled the pure, simple pleasure these films brought to him. He made them with his closest friends, regardless of talent. He held world premieres in his basement, passing out free popcorn and filling folding chairs with classmates and neighbors. The films weren’t designed for critical acclaim or mass consumption. They were constructed for his own amusement and satisfaction.

  When did my agenda change? Why did he need universal acceptance now to feel decent about himself? Wasn’t that the disease that ruled L.A.? It wasn’t drugs or booze. It was the applause. Applause junkies. Love me, love me, love me...because I don’t love myself.

  Harry decided to start the next day fresh, flushing Rachel’s rejection and Wiggins’ scorn out of his mind.

  At 7 a.m., he meditated.

  At 8 a.m., he played a new age CD by Kami, master of the soothing, floating synthesizer chords.

  At 9 a.m., he sat in his favorite Beachwood coffee shop and read Daily Variety while sipping a strawberry Frappuccino and nibbling on a raisin bagel.

  Finally he was feeling good again...relaxed even...until he read the article about Army of Steel.

  Budgeted at $110 million, Army of Steel was destined to be the next Hollywood blockbuster. The sci-fi action extravaganza had been designed by committee to launch a lucrative franchise. The big studio marketing muscle would crush all other films in its path.

  The movie’s plotline was simple but effective: in the future, to combat growing terrorism on U.S. soil, Los Angeles introduces a new breed of homeland security, part cop, part soldier, all machine. The prototype is a warrior named Simon Borg (aka Si Borg). Simon performs admirably, but must be retired when he sheds a tear, revealing a fatal flaw: human compassion. For Version 2.0, the aggression level is boosted and the sensitivity element lowered. The new cyborg patrol is activated and hits the street, attacking crime. However, a doomsday fanatic downloads a virus into the machine men and turns them against their own country. Simon Borg comes out of retirement to battle the bad ’bots before they can carry out their orders to set off a string of underground nuclear blasts that will trigger massive earthquakes throughout the West Coast. Millions of lives are at stake. Only Simon can save them.

  The movie had already secured various merchandising tie-ins, including action figures, toys, video games, comic books, and a promotional campaign with a major soft drink brand. The studio planned a parade of sequels.

  In a few weeks, Army of Steel would begin shooting on location throughout Los Angeles. Entire city blocks would be closed down for elaborate action sequences. The media buzzed with manufactured excitement. Army of Steel had been presold to the public.

  The big studio bombast, relentless marketing machinery, and crass commercialism annoyed Harry, as always, like seeing a bully flaunt his strength. But that was how the game was played. He was resigned to the system and the way it barely allowed breathing room for smaller, independent pictures.

  The Army of Steel movie by itself did not send Harry’s heart sinking into his gut. Rather, the crushing blow was delivered by two names he discovered in the fine print: his ex-wife and her new husband.

  Julie and Nigel Howard. Army of Steel’s leading lady and celebrated writer-director, recently pronounced one of Hollywood’s hottest couples by their publicist.

  Harry saw their names amid all the hyperbole, and felt the wind knocked out of him. He was still fully convinced Julie had left him because he never graduated from his “rinky-dink” low-budget horror pictures.

  Now she had found her perfect man.

  “She’s my leading lady on set and off,” read a quote from Nigel. “I am excited by the opportunity to make her a major star in a major movie.”

  Harry put down the paper.

  First, Rachel’s personal rejection. Then Wiggins’ public ridicule. And now his ex-wife’s sudden rise to stardom, portraying the love interest of a cyborg, featured in a “movie classic in the making” by her new husband.

  Harry felt tension branch through his body, followed by a blast of self-pity, wrapped in a layer of deep melancholy.

  All that meditation down the drain.

  He ditched Variety and left the Village Coffee Shop. He drove to the offices of PJ Productions. He entered the building and hurried to his office, sat down at his desk, and began making phone calls.

  He pounded
a stake through the heart of The Vampire of Sunset Strip. He contacted the cast, the crew, his locations, and told everybody the same thing: shooting had been canceled. The movie had been shelved.

  He apologized. He took full responsibility. He would pay kill fees out of his own pocket.

  Harry simply had no motivation left in him to make another movie. All inspiration and confidence had ground to a halt. He couldn’t go on.

  During Harry’s calls, Paul Jacobs left a voicemail, “Hey, Harry, just checking in. How’s the new movie going? I know I’m going to love it.”

  Harry didn’t call Paul back. He didn’t know what to say to Paul’s phony, jabbering enthusiasm. He just couldn’t deal with it right now.

  By the end of the day, Harry had contacted everyone, including the equipment rental companies. The Vampire of Sunset Strip had turned to dust.

  The movie no longer existed except as 108 pages of drivel on three-hole punch paper, held together by two brass fasteners. Printed words that would never come to life. He picked up the script from his desk and walked it down the corridor to a storage closet. He opened the door and approached Mount Slushmore.

  Harry chucked The Vampire of Sunset Strip on the pile. It joined the paper graveyard of dozens of other dead scripts, treatments and pitches.

  As Harry prepared to turn out the light and leave, his eye caught a glimpse of the movie Marcus Stegman had given him.

  He stopped and looked at it for a moment. The manila envelope rested near the top of the pile, close to falling off the edge.

  Harry thought, Maybe it will cheer me up to see somebody crappier than me. He picked up the envelope and brought it with him into the screening room.

  Harry opened the plastic slipcase and snapped the disc free, popping it into the DVD player. The machine hummed into action. He shut the door, killed the lights, and plopped himself into a chair.

  The opening credits appeared in crude lettering over the backdrop of a deep, moonlit sky.

  MARCUS STEGMAN PRESENTS

  Followed by

  DEADLY DESIRES

  Followed by

  WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY MARCUS STEGMAN

  Harry sighed. “Could use some music,” he mumbled to himself. After a few more credits, the camera panned several tents, and then reached a faded sign in English and Spanish. Teotihuacan Camping Grounds.

  Harry sat back, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and watched the movie unfold.

  Ninety-one minutes later, the film concluded and the screen went black.

  Harry couldn’t move. His heart pounded madly. The back of his shirt stuck to his seat with sweat. Nothing had prepared him for the gut-wrenching tension and onslaught of terror he had just witnessed. He fought to catch his breath as the real world returned, descending around him like a slow curtain.

  With relatively few special effects, a small cast, a tight script, handheld cameras, and an intense, direct shooting technique, twenty-something Marcus Stegman had created a stylish and truly frightening horror film worthy of praise and admiration.

  Shaken and surrounded by posters for his own work, Harry faced the realization that this talented young man had crafted a better movie in his first try, than anything Harry had accomplished in his entire career.

  And he was intensely jealous.

  11

  Harry telephoned Stegman and said, “Let’s do lunch.”

  They met at an outdoor café on the Venice Beach Boardwalk, next to an art gallery, overlooking the rollerbladers and volleyball games. The beautiful crowd was out, showcasing hard bodies. The colors of the coastline glimmered.

  Stegman wore a battered sports coat and yellow, plastic-rimmed sunglasses. He paced nervously before noticing Harry’s arrival.

  “Marcus!” greeted Harry.

  “Hello, Mr. Tuttle.”

  “Call me Harry.”

  They took a small table. Harry ordered a Portobello Club and iced Chai Tea. Stegman chose the avocado chicken melt and a beer. After the waitress departed with the menus, Harry turned to Stegman, clasped his hands, and said, “So. Marcus. I watched your movie...”

  Harry let the suspense build for a moment.

  “...and it blew me away.”

  Stegman blinked. Then he broke into a big grin. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I am so psyched. That’s great. Was it scary?”

  “A couple of times, I nearly soaked my pants.”

  “Way cool. That’s the reaction I want. I want to scare the hell out of people. I want them to jump in their seats. I don’t want them to see it coming and then whammo!”

  “Your technique is dead on. I really like what you did with the shaky, handheld cameras to create that anxious, unsettling texture. You leveraged your limitations to feed the suspense, going for a cinema vérité feel. That’s very hard to do without appearing amateurish. I know what you’re up against. It’s tough to make a low-budget film work in your favor.”

  “I didn’t have much money.”

  “No, but you have style. Some people have it, some people don’t. It’s a gift from above. Anybody can write a script. Anybody can point and shoot a camera. But not everybody has style. You got it, kid. Congratulations.”

  Stegman said, “Thanks. Coming from you, this is a big compliment. I mean, you are the standard.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind. I try.”

  They continued discussing Deadly Desires until the sandwiches arrived. Then, after Stegman had taken the first bite out of his sandwich —and finished most of his first beer —Harry began the negotiations. Harry told himself —be cool, be slick. Imagine that you are Paul Jacobs, Stanford business grad, wheeling and dealing.

  Harry said, “When we spoke before, you talked about some of the financial trouble you encountered in making your film —maxing out your credit cards and so on.”

  Stegman nodded. “Yes, it’s very true. Sometimes I let my artistic vision get in the way of common sense. I’m not in a good place right now with my finances. It’s catching up with me. It’s really expensive to make a movie —even a low-budget movie —and a no-name like me isn’t going to attract a lot of investors.”

  “You have no track record.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You don’t have any marquee names attached to your project.”

  “None at all.”

  “And you are competing with hundreds, if not thousands of other films that have a lot more clout behind them.”

  “You know it.”

  “Yes. I certainly do.”

  Harry felt positive. He was softening the kid up. They were aligned. Now it was time to make the pitch.

  “Marcus, I’d like to make you an offer for your movie.”

  Stegman put down his sandwich. He straightened in his seat. “Really?”

  “Yes. This is a unique offer, so I want you to listen carefully. It involves a lot of money. Do you want to hear me out?”

  Stegman said, “I’m all ears.”

  “I love your film. To be blunt, it’s everything that my movies aspire to be. Your movie is skillful; it’s dramatic; it’s contemporary; it’s scary. The bottom line is this: You have some talent. I have some financial success. I suggest we make a trade-off that will benefit both of us.”

  “A trade-off?”

  “I’d like to purchase Deadly Desires from you for eight hundred thousand dollars.” Stegman’s jaw dropped. “Eight hundred —?” “Eight hundred thousand dollars, up front and in cash.

  Some of it is coming out of my own pocket. Some of it is coming out of the budget I’ve been allocated for my next movie. The catch is this: Once I buy Deadly Desires, I assume full credit. The writing, the directing, the whole thing.”

  A long pause followed. Stegman took off his sunglasses. He placed them on the table. His tired, dark eyes looked straight at Harry. “Let me get this straight. Eight hundred thousand dollars and then you take all the credit?”

  “I’m sure we can find a credit fo
r you someplace. A producer. ‘Based on a story by.’ We’ll work something out. But my name would be attached as writer-director. Essentially, I would be the auteur.”

  “I’m a little confused. I appreciate your interest and the compliments. The money is great, but I just don’t know...”

  “This is Hollywood reality,” said Harry. “For better or worse, I have a brand name. You don’t have name recognition. My name can cut through the clutter and get this thing out there where it belongs, in front of the public. That’s your goal, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I want to make horror movies, and I want the movies to be seen by people.”

  “You want to reach as large an audience as possible, correct?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “This is your first movie. You’re going to have to make a few sacrifices. It’s not unheard of. My career got started the same way. Did you ever see Demonic Possession?”

  “Yes. I love that movie. The Max Argas picture.”

  “Case in point. Everybody calls it a Max Argas picture. Max Argas barely lifted a finger on that movie. His name was all over it, but essentially I wrote it. I was the director. Max was the big name in the credits, the engine that propelled the movie into the public, but he was hardly ever on the set. That bothered me at first, but when the movie was a big success, my career was launched.”

  “Wow,” said Stegman. “I never knew that.”

  “It’s not unusual. It’s done all the time in the publishing industry. You’ve heard of ghostwriters? They’re not only used for celebrity autobiographies. A lot of big name novelists use them so they can crank out more product. You’ve heard of James Peterson, the best-selling author who writes all those mysteries and thrillers? He doesn’t really write them himself anymore. He hires a team of ghostwriters. That’s why he has a new book every six months. He might construct the outline or something, but the books are written by other people who get paid good money for their willingness to work anonymously. The brand name ensures distribution and success. Marcus, I want you to be my ghostwriter, my ghostdirector, and I will make you rich in the process.”